Ground Floor
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: We have thirty floors to work this out Liz, so let's get down to business.


_underthepiano is a dear. Just a dear. Response to a self-administered 1,000 word challenge. Went a little over. Whoops.

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He says it to her in the way he might say, "Lemon, we're doing seven weeks of programming themed around the new refrigerave." That voice, that "This is the best idea ever and nothing you can say will assuage this, make it happen," sort of voice that always leaves her gritting her teeth and wondering if she has any wine at home (boxed... would be fine).

But he's not telling her that they need to have more female, blond, Republican guests on the show or that she needs to address the ladies in the mail room for their inappropriate choice in shoes. No, he's telling her that he loves her and maybe it's a parallel dimension, or maybe the elevator has just dropped far too drastically but something's making her head swim quite viciously. Jack's got the Times open to the business section and he's leaning against the wall and it's fifty flights to the ground floor on the non-stop executive elevator and she might actually vomit right there on the Persian elevator floor rug.

She brings the empty travel mug to her lips and nervously air-drinks. "Hah, yeah, that's crazy, the Yankees, you heard about what they did, right?"

"Lemon, are you listening to a word I'm saying? I'm saying that I love you." A brow raised, he glances at her quickly and then back at the newspaper in his hands.

There's a knot in her throat and her field of vision is slowly getting smaller and smaller and is the air gone? The air might be getting a bit thin. Nope, the air is definitely thinning and Liz is light-headed and really, the only thing to say is, "What the what?"

So, she runs through the possibilities in her mind. The Pranksters are at it again, Frank put something in her drink, it's opposite day (because it totally might be opposite day) or this is McDonald's french fry gas-induced hysteria. It's definitely one of those things, definitely. Except when he huffs and folds the paper and faces her and he's all business and dead serious, and surprisingly... intense... she thinks that perhaps this is all him. "We have thirty floors to work this out Liz, so let's get down to business."

Of course, it's business and she wishes that someone would call her so she could pretend "Oh, I really need to take this," or just, or just... the elevator would plummet and she could just, oh just die and not have to sweat the way she's sweating or wearing the underwear that she's wearing (because it's riding up her butt so horribly, but how can you pick a wedgie when someone is telling you that they love you?). "Yes. Business. Let's get... to it."

Liz back herself into the corner, literally; she moves as far away from him as possible. Because, yeah, this.

"People say that the best relationships are rooted in friendship, I mean, everyone says so."

"Everyone, who?" her voice is a high-pitched squeak. That seems about right.

"Everyone who matters, Dr. Phil, Oprah, the McCain's. Listen, Lemon, it makes sense. I can talk to you, about my life, office gossip, business." His eyes are a little crazy. Oh yeah, they are. "I trust you, Lemon."

It's confusing, and more than a little offensive, that he would think that a good, stable, lasting relationship is based on the fact that she's the only one who says to him, "Oh boy Jack, maybe GE shouldn't be introduced to the North Korean market." Maybe he's confused, or maybe he's having another three-quarter life crisis, but either way, she needs to say something because there's no one else here and the silence is getting more awkward by the second.

"Jack, that's not-"

He shakes his head, whether at himself or at her, she doesn't really know. "And not just that, you're self-deprecating humor, and the way you prefer pizza bites to pizza bagels, and other... things."

She's interested, even if she's uncomfortable and there's seventeen flights-how slowly does this thing move?-left and so she asks, "Other things?"

Jack rolls his eyes and maybe it's a little adorable because when he's exasperated he is quite adorable, "Oh, don't make me say it, Liz."

That makes her snap. They're at fifteen, now. "Liz? What is with all of this Liz-business, too. How would you like it if I started calling you Donaghy? And seriously, Jack? On an elevator? Least romantic place ever."

"Oh please, you were once proposed to at a Burger King." He delivers the barb with ease and then adds, "Drive. Through."

"I told you that in confidence!"

He does something she doesn't expect: he grabs her arm and looks kind of... desperate. "It's your laugh and your knowledge of classic films and yes, that you listen to me. Actually listen. I like talking to you and I enjoy it when you smile, or rather, I prefer your smiles to your frowns because when you frown, you look like a Muppet that got thrown into the dryer, but not just for that. What I'm saying is, that, Liz... you're... it."

Liz looks at him and her shoes and cringes a little because whatever that's going to come out of her mouth is probably going to be really awful. "I don't get it."

Jack looks her up and down and says, in one of those _other_ ways he has, "No," it's low and oddly sexy. "Of course you don't." He stares her down for a moment before he holds out his newspaper and asks, "Will you hold this, please?"

So that's it. He kisses her, and it's terribly awkward because her head hits the wall and she's digging her nails into thin newspaper and headlines will be smeared across her palms, but she likes kissing him and he smells nice and he's her best friend and well, he gets her, and that's really, really nice.

He steps back and snatches his paper away from her. He smooths down his tie.

The elevator stops.

They get out on the ground floor.


End file.
